


Holding Out For A Hero

by PinupGhoul



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Budding Love, Drinking, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Shyness, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, nerds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2019-08-20 14:31:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16557536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinupGhoul/pseuds/PinupGhoul
Summary: Sole Survivor Rook copes with the loss of his beloved wife, Nora. Hancock, Irma, and Magnolia become concerned that he's doing more harm than good. And when Goodneighbor thinks you've got a problem, you've got a problem.Hancock decides to introduce Rook to a friend with mutual interests, and the two hit it off better than expected.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know. I promised I would work on other pieces, but I can't shake this idea. I love Rook, that dysfunctional dude, and I want him to be happy. Expect one or two more chapters of this one. I'm not sure when. 
> 
> And as always, thanks so much for reading. I go back and reread all the comments on bad days. You're all wonderful!
> 
> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Another day, another eight hours wasted away in a memory lounger. Again and again he requested the same simulation, plugging in his first date with the woman who would become his wife. 

The Commonwealth faded into static, and then into a faintly illuminated building. Shredded tapestries hung on the wall, toppled furniture piling in the corners. It actually quire resembled some of the Post-War buildings he'd made camp in, but he knew it came from long before the bombs fell. Senior year of high school, class of 2066. 

 

A group of them decided to spend the night in the local haunted house, a relic from the late 90's. No one had lived there for decades; the place had gathered its share of dust, and, according to legend, ghosts. At the time, there were the four of them: Rook, Lenore, Raven, and Ash. The entirety of the high school's goth population, they clung together in sea of pastels. Just last year, Rook changed his name from the preppy one his mother had given him. Like the others, he reinvented himself. 

 

It was stupid, he thought, going in on a dare, but he was new enough to the group that he couldn't afford to back down. Plus, she'd be there. Lenore. Her parents called her Peggy. Well, they had before they kicked her out of the house and quit talking to her. Her closest friends called her Nora. Rook dreamed of the day he'd be among them. 

 

They laid out sleeping bags on the floor among the rotting chairs and cobwebs, all of them planning a long night of ghost stories, Lovecraft recitations, and sloshing down bottles of the ancient wine they'd found in the cellar. But as night fell, the crowd dispersed. 

 

“I, um, promised my mom I'd help her clean the garage,” Ash said. He ducked out before twilight. 

 

“Yeah, I was gonna take my little brother to a holofilm tonight,” Raven said, already slinging her backpack over her shoulder. 

 

“Losers,” Lenore laughed. She held the bottle out to Rook, who took it, downing a sip of dusty wine to hide his nerves. That left the two of them. Alone. Together. “I knew they were gonna flake anyway.”

 

He laughed shyly. He'd never been with her one on one before. Up close, she gave off a shimmery, ethereal light. Her thick black hair, blonde at the roots, caught dust motes, which glittered like constellations around her face. When he took a swig from the bottle after her, black lipstick came off on his mouth. She pointed it out. 

 

The first bottle turned into two more, each stronger than the last, until they switched to an old bottle of scotch she'd scavenged away in her bag. “I wasn't going to share with those guys.”

 

“But you'll share with me?”

 

“I like you.”

 

“Oh.”

 

When she kissed him, he got twice as drunk as he had from the wine. Her lips were the soft, sweet darkness that poets wrote about. 

 

A sharp creak made them jump apart. “What was that?”

 

“Voyeur ghosts?”

 

“You know, I like you, too. Nora.”

 

The static buzzed. Rook blinked. Slowly, the monitor lifted away from his face. He sat in the lounger once more. “Irma?”

 

“Not again, sweetheart. Go home.”

 

He rubbed his eyes. If only he could. He didn't have a home left. 

 

“Listen. Why don't you go on over to the Third Rail? Tell Charlie I sent you.”

 

Poor Irma had enough trouble, with all the rowdy, emotional clientele that came through the Memory Den. He couldn't justify giving her a hard time, no matter how much he wanted to watch it again. 

 

Reluctantly, he dragged himself out the door and into the street, the smoky Goodneighbor air cold around him. Music poured from the bar's entry. He followed it down into the old rail station and grabbed a scotch. It didn't taste nearly as good as he remembered. 

 

Suddenly, a light came on, illuminating a small stage. A woman stepped up and began to sing a slow, sensual song. Rook choked on his drink. Her long dark hair, her graceful profile...for the briefest second, he almost thought it was her. Before reality crashed back around him. It couldn't be. Nora was dead. 

 

The more he looked, the more he noticed the difference. The club singer had a curvy figure, smooth, tattoo-less skin, grey-brown eyes. Her voice, low and teasing, sounded nothing like Nora's sarcastic tone. But still, he couldn't look away. He sat there through four drinks and five songs, until his mind swam and his vision crossed. He was hooked. 

 

When Rook came to Goodneighbor, he was searching for answers. Where had they taken his son? What was the Institute? That was two weeks ago. Since then, he'd started up the habit, Memory Den by day, Third Rail by night. 

 

Another day passed. When the sun was high, he lurked in the lounger, drinking with Nora in the abandoned house. When it sank down, he sank scotches and listened, enraptured, to the woman he learned was called Magnolia. For another week, the same routine. 

 

The one time he tried to approach her, he stood from the bar and promptly fell on his ass. It was probably a good thing, too. What would he even say to her? 'You remind me of my dead wife?' Not exactly the most charming pick up line. Did he even want to pick her up? He didn't know anymore. He wanted Nora back. 

 

The next day, he watched a different memory. This time, he and Nora sat side by side on a sofa. She held his hand tight in one of her hands, the other held a needle. “You're sure about this?”

 

“It's half-done already. I've got to be sure.” He knew she wasn't talking about the tattoo. Nora dipped the needle in fresh ink, then clutched his hand again, adding to the stem of the rose along the side of his thumb. 

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

“Yes, I'm sure. I've never been more sure. I love you.”

 

Her whole face lit up, like it always did when he got emotional. “Good.” She leaned over to kiss him gently on the cheek. “Because I love you. And it would be really awkward to start planning our wedding if you didn't want to come.”

 

 

Rook sat up, the simulation ending. He rubbed a circle on the messy rose tattoo. Irma watched him, skeptical. “Are you going to be alright?” How did he answer that?

 

Some nights, Goodneighbor's mayor, Hancock, made an appearance at the bar. He seemed like a good guy, concerned about the vagrants, trying to learn everyone's story. A real man of the people. Rook wasn't sure if he'd ever said anything to him. He tended not to remember what he said when he woke up the next morning. 

 

In a haze of drink, song, and over-saturated memories, Rook passed the days, each one blending into the next. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he had a quest. He had to find his son, had to track down the bastard that had taken Nora away from him. But with enough distraction, he always managed to quiet that nagging voice. When he awoke, sometimes on a couch in the Third Rail, sometimes in the street, he itched to return to the Memory Den. 

 

One night, after finishing a bottle by himself, throwing the last of his caps on the counter, Rook made eye contact with Magnolia. The room seemed to stop. He felt ice run down his neck at the look on her face, not the lovesick, warm glow Nora always wore, but deep, deep pity. It shook him, woke him up from his stupor, and all he could do was run. 

 

Out in the street, he didn't know where to go. The cold air did little to clear his pounding head, the world swirling around him. He ran to the Memory Den, threw the door open, and was instantly met with Irma's glare. She crossed her arms, imperious from her chaise. “Not this time, sweetheart. Mayor's orders.”

 

“But...”

 

“You're hurting yourself. You're cut off.”

 

“I need to see her. Please.”

 

Her face fell. “Please don't make me force you to leave.”

 

He could tell it hurt her to turn him away. He didn't care. The memories were all he had. She couldn't take that away from him. “Please?”

 

“Go home.”

 

As soon as he closed the door behind him, he slumped to the ground. He choked on thick sobs, feeling tears and snot roll down his face, felt blood burst from his knee as he hit the ground. Luckily in Goodneighbor no one bothered a pathetic drunk. He was free to lay there in a heap, making a scene for the entire Commonwealth to see. 

 

The next thing he knew, he was stumbling up the stairs of the Old State House, Hancock's arm around his shoulders, practically carrying him up and dumping him on the couch. Rook wiped his nose on his sleeve and lay there, face down. Maybe if he kept his eyes shut, everything else would go away. He didn't need pity, not from Magnolia, not from Irma, not from Hancock. 

 

“You wanna talk about it, brother?” Hancock rasped. The earthy, chemically scent of Jet wafted through the air. 

 

Rook shook his head resolutely, shaggy mop of hair shaking. 

 

“Thought I was gonna have to put you out of your misery back there,” he said. 

 

Rook glanced up. Hancock draped himself over a chair, feet propped up on the table. He held a Jet inhaler in one hand. “You should have,” Rook mumbled. His stomach sloshed. It probably wouldn't look good for him if he ralphed all over the mayor's boots. 

 

“That's why I didn't. The ones that want to die are the ones that shouldn't. Thought you were trying to find your son.”

 

He nodded, then regretted it. The whole world bobbed up and down with the motion. “I still am.”

 

“Not like this, you're not.” Hancock acted casual, but Rook couldn't shake the feeling he was giving him a 'not mad, just disappointed' lecture. 

 

“In the morning,” he said. He flung his arm over his face to block out the light, but only succeeded in smacking himself in the nose with his Pipboy. 

 

The radio hissed to life. “I've got you now, Shroud!”

 

Rook laughed, bitterly. He moved to sit up, but fell back over. “I remember,” he started, “I remember the year I went to the SuperCon as...” he trailed off, then tried to focus in on Hancock. He settled for somewhere just above his head. “As Dr. Brainwash. I was always a good supervillain. I tried to get Nora to go as the Mistress Of Mystery, but...but she said “Oh, no. None of that nerd shit for me, thank you.” And so I went alone and brought her back a signed t-shirt. I had the best,” he broke off, thinking. The words just kept pouring out of his mouth, no matter what he did, “the best costume. With the goggles, and the...” he gestured to the bits of his costume, flailing his arms. 

 

Hancock watched him, looking amused. “Nerd shit, huh? Let's see what kind of state you're in tomorrow. I think I've got someone I want you to meet.”

 

Rook couldn't protest. The full force of his emotions had wiped his energy. Following Hancock's lead, he pulled an inhaler of Jet from his own bag, taking two deep inhales, until his mind calmed down enough that he could pass out. 

 

This time, he did not dream of Nora. The radio static in the background filtered into his dreams, reruns of the Silver Shroud, daring deeds, close encounters. He wore the costume, not his goggles and lab-coat from the Convention, but the signature black trench coat and scarf. All the villains wore his own face. He cut them down with his trusty Silver Submachine Gun. For once, in his dreams, he was the hero.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rook meets Kent Connolly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! 
> 
> Thanks for being patient with me. I'm not totally sure where I'm going with this, but I guess we'll all find out when I get there. As always, thanks so much for reading!

It turned out that Rook was in no state for company at all the next morning. He stumbled out of the Old State Building, clutching his throbbing head in his hand, an empty container of Jet in the other. Goodneighbor remained politely quiet in the early hours, drifters still snoring on their mats, the Watch nodding in his direction as he headed for Hotel Rexford. He paid for a room just so he could use the shower. It only drizzled a slow stream of icy water, but it was something. Better than bathing in the rad-filled, polluted river again. He rinsed off the smell of booze and the stench that came with wearing the same clothes for days. Feeling a little better in his cleanest shirt and slacks, he combed through his shoulder length hair with his fingers, trying to ignore his headache. 

 

Hancock would be stopping by, he figured. Last night, he had looked at Rook like he wanted to turn him into his next project, getting him cleaned up and back on his feet. It was weird: Rook actually felt like playing along. 

 

He met Hancock at the door. The other man gave him a look, apparently surprised to see him up and around already. “Listen,” he said, before Hancock could say anything, “I'm sorry about last night. I was a mess. I said a bunch of stupid stuff.”

 

Hancock waved his apology away. “How much do you remember?”

 

Rook wiped his face. “Um, not a lot? Did I...talk about superheroes?” He needed to get out of Goodneighbor before he made a bigger fool of himself than he already had. 

 

“Sure did. Hey, don't make a big deal out of it. It gave me an idea.”

 

“Oh, yeah?”

 

They walked down the street toward the Memory Den. Rook's fists clenched. Would he force him to tell Irma he was kicking the habit? Was that what this was about, some kind of public shaming? “What are we--?”

 

“Just trust me. I've got someone I'd like you to meet.”

 

 

They bypassed his favorite memory lounger and turned to a little room Rook hadn't noticed on any of his previous visits. 

 

Hancock's knock was met with a quiet, “Good morning, Mister Mayor.”

 

Rook glanced around as they stepped in. The tiny room, barely the size of a closet, somehow managed to hold a couple of end tables, a small writing desk, a bed, and a dozen radio broadcast posters. A full-size cardboard cut out of The Silver Shroud character stood in the corner, dwarfing a small man who sat hunched over a ham radio. He sat up in surprise when he noticed he had more company than just Hancock. 

 

“I'd like you to meet my friend Kent. Kent, this is Rook.”

 

They exchanged mumbled hellos. 

 

Hancock looked between them, like he was disappointed they didn't instantly strike up a conversation. His sigh said, 'Do I have to do everything myself?' Out loud, he said, “This guy was just telling me all about how he dressed up as Mr. Brainwash—“

 

“Dr. Brainwash,” said Rook and Kent simultaneously. They glanced at each other a moment. Rook cleared his throat. “I used to follow The Unstoppables. The Silver Shroud, too, but I was never home when they dropped a new one. Always had to catch up the next week.” 

 

“You mean, when they first aired? How? The last broadcast was hundreds of years ago.” The man looked young when his eyes widened. His ghoulified skin didn't hide any of his emotion. “Sure, a lot of us ghouls lived back then, but none of us look as good as you.”

 

“Thanks?” Even surrounded as he was in Goodneighbor, he really never considered the fact that most of the ghouls were per-War as well. Hancock turned long after the bombs fell; he just sort of assumed the others had, too, even when he knew better. It felt nice to see someone from before. Sure, he didn't actually know Kent back then, but just the thought that they grew up in the same world put him at ease. Rook just started talking. He pieced together his pre-War life, without mentioning Nora or Shaun, just recounting his time in the Vault, what it felt like, what he thought upon awakening. 

 

Kent listened, rapt, practically vibrating in his seat. “Oh, man,” he said, as soon as Rook had finished, “That's amazing. You're just like Mr. Abominable from Episode 83.”

 

Rook laughed. The tightness in his chest lessened, just a little. 

 

Hancock coughed. “Not that this isn't fascinating...I think I'll leave you two to it.” 

 

 

Without an audience to their geekdom, Kent invited him to take a seat. 

 

He sat on the bed, careful not to mess anything up. Sitting on someone else's bed was...not sacred, but intimate somehow. Then again, there weren't any other chairs. 

 

Kent waved his arms around as he talked, getting more enthused by the minute. While Rook really only knew the crossover stuff, from The Silver Shroud's stint with the Unstoppables, he kept up well enough. Kent needed someone to talk to; his radio show couldn't reply or encourage him to go on whenever he asked, “Am I making sense?”

 

Where have I seen him before? Rook wondered. What did he look like before the radiation set in? Short and nerdy, for sure. He had blue eyes, no glasses. He dressed well, jacket and hat although Rook had never seen him out and about in Goodneighbor. Maybe at the library? At the college? Had he gone to the same convention, hidden behind a costume mask? 

 

“I have an idea,” he said finally, turning his full attention to the man sitting on his bed. 

 

Rook watched the light in his eyes turn conspiratorial. He felt himself smiling. “Let's hear it.”

 

“What if the Silver Shroud was real?”

 

 

And that was exactly how Rook found himself in the bad part of town, laser rifle slung over one shoulder, pistol in one hand, the other on the doorknob of Hubris Comics.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someday Rook will have to stand up and fight instead of running away from his demons. But today is not that day.

He crept around one of the remaining bookstands, pistol gripped in his shaking hand. The faint light of his Pipboy spread green highlights across his cheeks. He took a breath through clenched teeth, cautious of every sound. The place was swarming with feral ghouls. He could smell it. Their scent, like a combination of fishy pond slime and moved grass, choked what little air filtered through the cracked walls. 

 

His fingers brushed ashy copies of once-popular comics. Grognak. A couple copies of “Giant Insects Invade”. A handful of Unstoppables comics that crumpled into dust when he picked them up. Nothing he needed, but the nostalgia of it all made his head ache. 

 

Turning the corner, he froze up, shoving himself against the shelf. A feral ghoul lay curled up in the corner, still sleeping. Rook's heart pounded. He aimed. Two head shots, and the ghoul never woke again. 

 

Before the ringing sound had even died down, he heard the telltale scraping of more ghouls, alerted by the sound. He reloaded, ducking behind a shelf for cover. One ghoul, two shots. Another. A splatter of blood hit his wrist and he felt it singe the skin. They poured out of the walls, like a nest of spiders. His back to the wall, he slid around the store, keeping them at bay as best he could. All this for a stupid costume? Was Kent really going to wear it, or would it just be another piece of memorabilia in his already crowded room? Sure, it made sense, wanting to hold the old days close, but this was something else entirely. If he couldn't even leave Goodneighbor to get it himself, how was he supposed to don the suit and take on bad guys?

 

Not that Rook really minded doing the dirty work. Kent seemed...soft. Innocent. He wouldn't last a minute outside the city. For a second, Rook doubted whether he would, either. The horde shambled toward him; he aimed for the legs now to keep them back. When they fell, he ended it with a mercy shot to the head. They'd suffered enough. 

 

Around the corner was a set of stairs. He planted a couple mines at the base before reloading and creeping upstairs. Two more ghouls down. In one corner a photo background took up most of the space, and in front of it, the suit. 

 

That was easy, he thought, taking a couple steps toward it. Then he spied the glowing green feet sticking out from behind the photo board. A Glowing One. 

 

Shit. It was too late for a Stealth Boy, even if he had one. Surely the ghoul had heard the shots and knew exactly where he was. Rook counted to three in his head. Now or never. He ran for the mannequin. As fast as he could, he shoved the coat, scarf, and hat into his pack, then bolted for the stairs. The floor shook with the vibrations of something behind him. He ran, not looking back, pulling himself through the door just as the mines blew. His pulse drummed in his ears and his lungs ached, but still he kept on, until he reached Goodneighbor's gates. 

 

When he could breathe normally once more, he tried to set down his bag and his pistol, but his hands refused to let go. Even when he pried them free, his fists still clenched in the same position. A few drifters and residents watched him warily. He forced himself to down a bottle of water, then rifled through his pack to find his prize. Without the mannequin to hold it up, the famed costume didn't look like much, just a heap of black and silver fabric that had almost cost him his life. 

 

Even after a couple centuries of radiation to screw up the weather patterns, November brought with it a merciless chill. The sweat along the back of his neck cooled, sending shivers down his spine. The sooner he got inside, the better. 

 

Irma almost stopped him as soon as he entered the Memory Den, but sat back down when he headed toward Kent's room. He knocked. 

 

“Oh, you're back!” Kent's excited face fell a little when he took in Rook's disheveled appearance. 

 

Rook held up a finger to say 'one moment' as he dug the costume out of his pack and held it up in all its glory. 

 

Kent gasped audibly. “There she is. Pretty as the posters. The Silver Shroud costume herself.” He reached out to run a reverent hand along the coat. Suddenly, he snapped out of his daze. He opened a chest beneath his chair and drew out a stunning replica of the Shroud's Silver Submachine Gun. 

 

“Where did you find that?”

 

“I built it.”

 

Rook blinked. He didn't doubt him, he was just surprised. Kent seemed more like the fanfiction type and less like the 'build a fully-functional machine gun from scratch' type of guy. “That's so cool...” he said, without really meaning to say anything. 

 

Kent looked shyly at the ground. “I just...have to do something, you know?”

 

Rook nodded. That queasy sense of shame snaked deeper into his stomach. Even unassuming little Kent Connolly was trying to make the world better, selfless and passionate. Rook couldn't even get over himself long enough to rescue his own son. He was pathetic and he knew it. 

 

“But there's just one problem,” Kent said, bringing him back to the present. 

 

“Which is?”

 

“I'm just not Silver Shroud material. I could be Rhett Reinhart or—or his butler Jarvey Blake. But the Shroud is strong, capable.”

 

The knife in his stomach twisted again. How could he think that anyone else was better suited to the role? Sure, Kent didn't have much experience in the 'real world', but he cared enough to make a difference. That had to count for something. 

 

“Don't sell yourself short,” he said. 

 

But Kent was already going ahead with, “You suit up and clean the streets. Together, we can make a real difference.” He must have worn an expression of disbelief, for Kent added, “You'll see.” 

 

I'm not a hero, he thought. I'm the opposite of the Shroud. I'm a coward. His stomach ached and his chest tightened. The look of absolute faith on Kent's face tore right through him. 

 

“So you in?”

 

“Why me?”

 

“You helped me out when everyone else just laughed at me. And you're from the olden days, like me.” The enthusiasm slid out of his voice word by word, like helium from a balloon. 

 

Rook couldn't bear it. Couldn't have anyone else disappointed in him. “I'm in, Kent.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, everyone! Happy New Year!
> 
> More to come at a later date, but who knows when that'll be:)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rook becomes the Shroud!

All he needed now was montage music. Rook pulled his once-white shirt off and shrugged into the clean black one, tugging the heavy black trench coat on over top. The weighted fabric made him feel like he needed to stand up taller, straighter. Finally, he fastened the scarf, shook out his sleeves, and placed the hat on over his shaggy hair. 

 

In the little hallway behind the main room of the Memory Den, he examined his reflection. His eyes, nearly hidden behind the black tattoo stripe, could almost meet those in the mirror. Avoiding his face, he took in the sight of the entire ensemble, hoisting the gun in what he thought was a heroic pose. It was incredible, really, how the clothes truly did make the man. 

 

A long-forgotten feeling sparked in his chest. Somehow his body felt more solid, more real. He just had to show Kent. He couldn't wait to see his expression. 

 

He cleared his throat as he stood outside the door, trying to remember any of the Shroud's catch-phrases. With a deep breath, he pushed open the door and swept into the room. 

 

“Death has come for you, evildoer, and I am its Shroud!” 

 

Kent lit up. His jaw dropped, then he broke into a huge grin, jumping to his feet. 

 

Rook had never seen anyone look so happy. Never. A little electric shock went through him, a warm glow that spread to a smile. “Well, what do you think?”

 

Kent's eyes watered. He looked like he wanted to wrap him in a hug, but instead, he just bounced on his heels. “Like the real thing!”

 

The glow didn't leave him for the rest of the day. Even the jeers of the Watch couldn't dampen his mood. He tuned his Pipboy into the Silver Shroud radio, waiting for his assignment. He didn't have to wait long; moments later, Kent's voice crackled through, telling him about the murderer Delancy, and warning evildoers that the Shroud had come for them. 

 

He let himself fall into the character, abandoning 'Rook', and switching into someone who could make a difference. He hardly remembered what he said when he confronted the sniveling man, only that he used the Shroud's voice. Delancy laughed at him, but not for long. Fishing a calling card from the coat's pocket, he left it on the body. 

 

The Shroud's justice matched perfectly with Goodneighbor's. Quick, efficient, vigilante style. A.J., the chem dealer, met the same fate, as did his goons. The Shroud left them in a heap, then moved on to the next heroic rescue. 

 

Kent's voice chirped through the radio, informing him of another target, just outside the city limits. He didn't know the specifics, but a pop in to The Third Rail told him all he needed to know. So he slung his pack on his shoulder, adjusted the brim of his hat, and set off for Water Street Apartments. While he walked, clinging to the shadows, he tried to shake off his mounting disbelief. 

 

This wasn't him; barging into battle, rushing in without a second thought. He hid in the rafters, picking off attackers when he had no other choice, if he couldn't run away. Rook never sought out trouble, and certainly not with costumed confidence. It was a good thing Kent saw something in him. 

 

The coat whipped around him as he stepped into the main landing of the apartment complex. Judging by the creak of footsteps on the rotting floor, he figured there must be at least four raiders hiding in the corners. Where there were raiders, there were traps. Scanning the room, he spied a bundle of grenades, tied to a string from the ceiling. Taking aim, he fired off a couple blasts. 

 

A massive explosion lit up the small foyer, blasting debris backward. Someone screamed, then choked off. Alright, he thought. Three to go. Kendra, his target, couldn't be down here on the bottom floor; that wasn't how things worked. Raiders' hierarchies dictated where they were stationed. The expendables always guarded the door. 

 

In the kicked up dust, a red beam trained in on Rook's head. He ducked just as a shot collided with the wall behind him. From the ground, he aimed for the raider's feet, though he could barely see them through the dust cloud. He must have hit something. The figure thumped to the floor, rolling around and shooting at anything in range. Rook stood, pressing himself flush with the wall, then fired in the direction he assumed the person's head was. He heard a grunt, then the movement stopped. 

 

The other two raiders called to each other. He scooted out of the way and made a break for the glowing light of an elevator just as a molotov cocktail illuminated the room. In the chaos, he ducked inside, frantically slamming the 'close door' button. Someone turned toward him, cocking a gun. He flattened himself back as far as he could. Finally, the door slid shut, just as a bullet zinged off the metal. 

 

Catching his breath, he reloaded his gun and wiped the sweat from his brow. This wasn't Rook, this was the Shroud. The Shroud could carry out a mission like this, all deadly   
accuracy and no mercy, a classic vigilante. As he cleared his way toward one of the inner rooms, up on the highest floor, he stopped thinking. 

 

He only needed to act, to fire off a snarky catch-phrase and a bullet, and that was the end of that. Like a storm, he swept in to a small computer room, pointing his weapon at the first thing that moved. Unfortunately for him, she fired first. The bullet ricocheted off a piece of ceiling tile, missing him by a couple inches. Kendra. 

 

“Evildoer...!” he began, but she was already firing at him again, a spray of bullets narrowly missing his feet, pushing him back toward the open hallway. Ducking around the corner, he shot into the room, blasting blindly. Reloading as quick as possible, he drew a breath, then spun back around the doorframe, finger on the trigger. 

 

One shot in the chest, one in the head. That was the plan. He didn't count on Kendra standing right there on the other side of the door, brandishing a hunting knife. He flailed backward, tripping over a wooden crate. Landing with a crash on his back, he threw up his arms, blocking the swipe of her knife with the barrel of his gun. He managed to twist it around as she stabbed at him, pressing it into her chest. 

 

She looked down, eyes wide as she realized.

 

He pulled the trigger. Twice. Three times. Four. 

 

Her body fell against his, an instant dead weight. He couldn't get out from beneath her fast enough. He shuddered, squirming away. 

 

Pulling himself to his feet, he found a door leading to a fire escape, a safe way out without running past the few remaining raiders. In a much more Rook-like move, he slid out the window and silently made his way down the rusted stairs to the ground. 

 

Moments later, the static cleared from his Pip Boy. He picked up the faint sound of Kent's voice and followed it home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks for reading! 
> 
> I'm not totally sure where this is going, but there will be romance and drama eventually. I wanna get through the Silver Shroud quest line, then add a little bit of sweetness :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rook embarks on a rescue mission.

His next job actually came from Hancock. He answered the summons to the Old State House as soon as he got inside the gates and popped a stimpak. 

 

Still in full costume, he surveyed the mayor's usual hangout, scanning over the couch where just days ago, he had lain drunken and sobbing. He cringed. 

 

“Listen,” Hancock said, “I got a job for...” he trailed off, giving Rook the eye. The corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting back a laugh. “So....when's the wedding?”

 

“The wedding?”

 

“You and Kent. Talking comics with him is basically a proposal, but the whole costume?”

 

Rook ran a hand across the back of his neck. “The job?”

 

“Hold your horses, brother. Just a little bit of cleaning up.”

 

It seemed too easy. There had to be a catch. Sure, Smiling Kate and Northy were raider bosses, but so was Kendra. Why had Hancock requested him specifically? He packed once more, restocking his ammo and a few stimpaks, just in case. If it weren't for the instant healing effect, his arms would look like a junkie's, peppered with needle marks. 

 

 

Northy went down without much of a fight. After taking out a couple of his bodyguards, he chased the raider across a park, ducking behind structures from an old playground. Once the Silver Shroud's card lay inside his coat lapel, Rook moved on to his next hit. 

 

Stomach pressed to the ground, Rook hid himself beneath an old car, lining up one of Smiling Kate's goons in his sights. From here, no one could see him, though making a quick escape was out of the question. With a clink of shells, the Silver Submachine Gun let off a round, toppling one man. Before the party could catch on, he felled another. Scrambling back, he shimmied out from under the car and made a sprint for the nearest cover, around the corner of a building. Shots pinged against the bricks beside him. 

 

Footsteps made their way over to him. He bashed forward with the barrel of his gun, feeling it connect with a face. The man hit the ground, unconscious, blood streaming from his nose. That left Kate herself. He ran at her, giving away his location only long enough that he could reach another building with a better vantage point. She followed close behind, yelling taunts and curses in his direction, enraged by the killing of her gang. 

 

“There you are!” she growled, rounding the corner and firing at his head. He ducked into a doorframe, heart racing. 

 

He aimed at her leg, catching her off guard. She knelt down, clutching the wound, and he made to finish her off. Click. Click. Out of ammo. 

 

“Shit!”

 

He pulled his laser pistol from his pocket, but Kate was already on her feet, pulling herself painfully toward him. He could see the Psycho in her eyes, driving her to kill. 

 

She pounced on him, driving a knife deep into his bicep. He screamed as she yanked it free, slamming back against the wall to avoid another slash. He pushed against her, overbalancing her, though the force ripped like fire through his arm. This time when she hit the ground, he was ready. He shot without thinking. 

 

With shaking hands, he placed the calling card on her body. As the stimpak worked its magic, he stumbled back to Goodneighbor once more. This time, he'd take a break from all this work. He needed a drink and a real night's sleep. 

 

The closer he got to town, the deeper his anxiety ran. His stomach twisted, and a deep dread, cold and slimy, ran along his spine. It only worsened as he made his way to the Memory Den. Irma stood immediately, panic clear on her face. 

 

“It's you! Oh sugar, I told Kent all that hero stuff was going to get you both killed! Oh god...Oh god...”

 

He must look worse than he thought. The wound was stitching itself closed, but he was still doused in sweat and blood, some of it his own. All of a sudden, a feeling overtook him. 

He felt like he was back in the Vault again, nothing but hopeless cold and claustrophobia, drowning in ice. “Where's Kent?”

 

Numbly, he walked to the now abandoned room. Blood streaked the front of the radio desk. He forced himself not to vomit. His hands slid uselessly on the Pip Boy's dials, fumbling to get the station on. A deep voice, ghoulishly rough, told him to come to the Milton General Hospital. Kent's voice cracked through the speaker, tight with fear. 

 

“Don't do it, Shroud!”

 

His legs went out from under him as he heard a shot. 

 

But then Kent's voice was back, weak, scared, but alive. 

 

His head swam. Not Kent. This wasn't happening. Kent had no part in this. He just wanted to help. This is my fault, he thought. 

 

“Go save him,” Irma said firmly. 

 

He nodded, choking on words. His Shroud coat tangled around his feet. The scarf cut off what little air he tried to pull in. First Nora, then Shaun. Then Kent. He took off running, flying out the door, just barely checking his Pip Boy to find his heading. 

 

Rook was no hero, but hen just couldn't lose anyone else. 

 

He raced past feral ghouls waking up to snarl at him. He didn't stop when mongrels nipped at his heels, or gunners swore at him. He ran past mutants, the telltale beeping of a Suicider behind him, echoing the frantic, fruitless hiccoughing of his heart. Milton General Hospital loomed in the distance, and he closed in on it before he had time to think. 

 

He hardly felt his fingers on the trigger as he cut raiders down, clearing a path to the elevator. If they shot at him, he couldn't tell. The only other time he felt like this was his first and only experiment with Psycho. His body didn't feel. It just reacted. 

 

As the elevator doors shut behind him, he reloaded the Silver Submachine Gun. He popped a stimpak, faced the door, and took a deep breath. What was he even going to do? Would they let Kent free if he turned himself over? Or would they just kill the both of them. 

 

Ding.

 

The doors slid open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! Wow, two chapters in a week! I'm guessing we'll have maybe five more total? Anyway, thanks for sticking with it!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rook makes a daring rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: canon-typical violence
> 
> I'm back!!

His heart slammed against the inside of his chest, hard enough he feared it might break right through. The sweat slicking his palms made him fumble, nearly dropping the gun. The bombs falling, sirens screeching, hadn't send panic flooding through his system like this. Kent was there, on the other side of that door. Who knew what Sinjin had done? They might have tortured him, shot him again. He could've bled out by now from the first wound. The thudding of Rook's heartbeat pumped out a refrain: Too late. Too late. Too late. 

 

Still, he had to do something. He'd spent so long hanging back, letting his planning turn to overthinking, overthinking to fear, and fear to self-loathing. Now he had to act. The gun held high, Rook stepped out into a spacious room. Immediately surrounding him, two gunmen watched his every move as he drew closer to a raised platform. Sinjin, a muscular ghoul in bulky armor, leveled a pistol against Kent's head. 

 

Rook took a breath for the first time in minutes. Kent. He was still alive. Though on his knees, arms bound, he glanced up to see Rook with hopeful, terrified eyes. 

 

Off to his side stood a woman, mouth drawn up in a cruel smile. He assumed she was the other voice from the recording. What was he doing here? The fear hit him again, like a hit of Jet, freezing time around him. Outnumbered 4-to-1, and he didn't only have his life to worry about, but Kent's. If he took aim at Sinjin, he had only to pull the trigger. 

 

The words fell out of him as time unfroze. He didn't speak; the Shroud did. Sinjin's reign of terror must come to an end. The two gunmen actually put their arms in the air as he spoke, fleeing the room before either he or their boss could drag them into the fire fight. 

 

He pulled the coat around him, letting the Shroud envelop his old identity. His eyes never left Kent's as he spoke, threatening Sinjin and his accomplice. It only served to anger Sinjin. How far could Rook push him toward surrender before he snapped? 

 

“You might have some people fooled,” he growled, “You think you're some kind of legend.”

 

He took a step forward, hands clinging to the Silver Submachine Gun. 

 

Sinjin stood up straighter. “You step any closer and we get to see what's inside Kent's head.”

 

Kent flinched, squeezing his eyes shut. 

 

Rook's heart stopped. “Leave Kent out of this. I'm the one you want.” That's something a hero might say, right? It would only be fitting. If Rook didn't make it out of this alive, the Wasteland wouldn't miss him. One more selfish idiot destroyed by this war. But Kent? If Kent could survive, there was still hope. 

 

Sinjin grinned, and Rook knew he'd miscalculated. “Every superhero has a weakness, Shroud.” His finger curled around the trigger, the barrel pressed painfully against Kent's temple. 

 

He'd lost his chance to talk Sinjin down. He'd pushed him too far. Now or never. 

 

He knew what was about to happen. Kent's expression said he did, too. In a split second, he fired. Nine rounds, no pause. Not letting up until Sinjin's head came clean off of his neck. He whipped around and dropped the accomplice before Sinjin's body had a chance to hit the floor. 

 

The sound of gunfire drowned out all other noise. He couldn't think. His hands shook so hard, his gun fell to the ground. 

 

“Shroud? Shroud?!”

 

Kent's voice cut through the echo. 

 

“Oh my god.” He rushed over to untie him, but his hands trembled so much he could barely undo the knots. He pulled him into a tight hug, clutching him close. Kent's hands gripped the fabric of his costume, refusing to let go. Rook pulled them both to their feet. Still holding Kent close, he looked down at the pieces of Sinjin's corpse. “Death has come for you, evildoer...”

 

Kent cried out, leg buckling beneath him. Rook had nearly forgotten about the gunshot wound. “Here, hold on.” He injected him with his last stimpak. “We're getting out of here. Can you walk?”

 

Kent looked completely dazed. “I...I don't think so.”

 

“Ok, here.” He wrapped one of Kent's arms around his neck, then scooped him up, holding him bridal style. He'd never really realized how small the other man was, probably just over five feet. Rook had almost a foot on him. Between the adrenaline and the size difference, Rook didn't have too much trouble carrying him out of the shell of the hospital. 

 

At some point, Kent passed out. Rook decided that was as good a time as any to make camp for the night. He found a hollowed out apartment building whose ceiling had long since caved in, leaving a small sheltered corner. He set Kent upon the ragged remains of a couch, while he took watch. The frantic pounding of his heart hadn't quite returned to normalcy; no way would he get any sleep anyway. He could see the spot where the bullet had entered Kent's leg, now healing together, thanks to the stimpak. His head fell back against the wall as he took in deep, grateful breaths. Kent was alright. They were both going to be fine. 

 

 

When the sun rose, he shook Kent awake. “Take this.”

 

Kent finished off the bottle of water and the pack of Dandy Boy apples. “You're not hurt, are you?”

 

“I'm ok.”

 

“That was the bravest thing I've ever seen!”

 

He huffed a laugh. “What?”

 

“You tried to sacrifice yourself...for me...”

 

Rook ran a hand across the back of his neck. He didn't feel like a hero, just lucky. “Well, yeah. I care about you.”

 

“You...what?” Kent looked genuinely confused.

 

Had he gone too far? He thought that much was obvious. He didn't dress up in silly costumes for strangers. “You're my best friend. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you again.” He offered a hand to help him up.

 

Kent took it, absolutely beaming. “Best friend,” he said quietly, “Huh.” 

 

“Come on; let's get back to Goodneighbor. Irma's pretty worried.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading! I'm hoping to move toward the romance storyline in the next couple of chapters:)


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